


Ink Blots on Lilies

by sebastian2017



Series: Floral Tattoos [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Florist!Mycroft isn't the ice man, Greg is a tattoo artist, M/M, Mycroft is a florist, awkward nervous baes with crushes, florist/tattoo artist au, flower shop au, he's just a cute little fluffball with a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebastian2017/pseuds/sebastian2017
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes runs a flower shop in London. A flower shop he is very proud of and which meets a very high caliber for flower shops. A flower shop that certainly doesn't normally cater men covered head to toe in tattoos. And yet there he is, the most attractive, inked up hooligan Mycroft has ever seen buying the strangest arrangement of flowers he's ever put together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink Blots on Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft isn't really like in the 'high and mighty I'm a prick and caring is not an advantage' just because he doesn't do high government work that requires that sort of thing in this AU. He's just a florist, minding his own business. So he takes more after his parents, all sweet and awkward and adorable.  
> And Greg is badass as always.

Mycroft Holmes was a very methodical man. He’d run his very own flower shop since he was twenty-three and since the day his flower shop had opened, Mycroft’s days all ran more or less the same. He went into work at 8 o’clock sharp, had any arrangements due for pick up ready by 8:30, opened shop doors at 9, spent the day running the shop with his assistant Anthea, closed at seven, and went home. It was a rare occasion when he deviated from his routine. Mycroft had no problems with this routine, preferred it in fact. It gave his life order and purpose. Mycroft wouldn’t have it any other way.

His days were predictable enough to give him comfort, but differing enough to entertain him. Most of his day was spent filling out large orders for companies looking to brighten up events or luncheons. In between managing those orders, there was always the occasional person coming in looking for an arrangement to placate a lover or as a gift for a hospitalized loved one. Those customers always made for the most entertaining, as Mycroft always thoroughly enjoyed trying to deduce the specific reasons behind their visits. He’d seen just about everything. Countless terminal illnesses, adultery, births, first dates, and just about every other scenario under the sun.

For all that Mycroft thought he’d seen every scenario possible, he’d been very much caught off guard when a man covered in tattoos walked in early one morning. It was all Mycroft could do not to stare. The man looked to be around Mycroft’s age, so teenage counterculture was out of the equation as to provide explanation for all the tattoos. The man was dressed for the rare sunny day out in England, in shorts and rolled up shirt sleeves that clearly showed legs covered in ink and tattoo sleeves on both his arms. From the bit of collarbone and chest peeking out from the undone top button of his shirt, Mycroft could see some more tattoos peeking out that surely extended down along under his shirt. He was the type of person that sparked worry and paranoia if he walked down the same street as you late at night. A terribly attractive hooligan, Mycroft had to admit, but a hooligan, nonetheless.

But then the man flashed the most charming smile Mycroft had ever seen in his life and every trace of disdain Mycroft had held flew out the window, replaced by an overbearing professionalism to keep himself from getting flustered or, God forbid, _flirty._

“Morning! I’m here to pick up an order I made over the phone. For a Lestrade?” the man, Lestrade, apparently, said as he approached the counter.

Mycroft looked through, the list of orders and nodded. “Gregory Lestrade? Yes, that’s right in the back. One moment, please.” He retreated to the back room, taking longer than necessary as he tried to figure out what a man like Mr. Lestrade might be doing with an arrangement as odd as lilies, poppies, and cherry blossoms. When he came back, Lestrade was leaning up against the counter, looking terribly at ease for a tattoo-covered man in a flower shop. “Bit of a strange combination, this arrangement.” Mycroft remarked as he handed him the flowers.

And there Lestrade went again, with that stupidly charming grin that Mycroft had grown to despise in the few minutes since Lestrade had walked. No one should be able to get him feeling like a crushing teenager with nothing but a smile. “It is, yes. Don’t worry, they won’t be together for long.” Lestrade assured him as he pulled his card out to pay. 

Mycroft didn’t even bother questioning what that meant. He was eager to get Lestrade rung up and out of his shop, before his palms got a chance to grow sweaty and his stomach could flutter with butterflies once more. Like a bloody teenager. “Well, there you are. Enjoy your order, Mr. Lestrade.” Mycroft murmured, handing him his card back.

Lestrade grinned another of his stupid grins and waved goodbye before heading out. Mycroft watched him go, admiring a fox inked onto his calf and telling himself that he was only staring for the artistic values. Certainly not for the model sporting the art. Once was Lestrade was out of sight, Mycroft scolded himself for acting like schoolboy and busied himself with his flowers to forget all about charming hooligans with odd flower arrangements.

\---

Not even twenty-four hours later, Lestrade was back in his shop. Mycroft had only just managed to get Lestrade out of his mind and there he was again with his stupid smile and all his stupid tattoos. Lestrade was wearing jeans this time around, but a shirt that showed more of his arms and revealed an outline of the London skyline just above his elbow. It was ridiculously, infuriatingly, charmingly British and Mycroft’s little schoolyard crush only grew worse because of it.

“Good morning. Again.” Lestrade approached the counter, still smiling. (Mycroft began to wonder if perhaps his face was just stuck that way?) It was still friendly and charming and lovely, but there was an obvious air of embarrassment around it. “I’m afraid I spilled some ink on the lilies. Any chance you have some more lying about?”

“You spilled some ink? Well, yes, of course I have some more, Mr. Lestrade. Though may I suggest keeping your flowers away from your pens next time? Seems like a bit of a waste.” Mycroft commented, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how one managed to get ink from a paper on a desk to a flower.

Lestrade laughed. “No, no. I was using them for a tattoo one of my clients wanted. I got the outline just fine, but clean up got a bit messy and I’d rather have a fresh pair for when she comes back for the coloring tomorrow.” he explained. “And it’s Greg, please. I feel another grey hair coming on every time someone calls me Mr. Lestrade.”

A tattoo artist. Of course. It made perfect sense now that Lestrade, _Greg_ had said it and Mycroft wanted to kick himself for not having figured it out on his own. “Ah. Of course. Will you be needing the same amount as last time?”

Greg nodded, pulling out his wallet and placing his card down on the on the counter. Mycroft gathered the flowers and handled the payment before handing them over to Greg. Greg took them with a wink and a friendly smile that bordered on flirty and he was off. Mycroft tried not to be too disappointed as he watched Lestrade get into a cab and disappear from view.

\---

Try as he might, Mycroft couldn’t help but hope that Greg would walk in for a third morning. However, the morning came and went without Greg showing hide nor hair and Mycroft ignored the disappointment in his heart by busying himself with the displays at the shop window. He was bent over some orchids when the front door’s bell jingled. Mycroft finished the watering he was doing, figuring that any customer that came in with only two minutes to closing time could have a bit of patience. At this hour, with such little time before the shop closed, Mycroft expected some desperate boyfriend, looking for something to impress on a first date or to make amends after a fight. Or perhaps some frazzled new father, picking something up for his wife’s hospital room. The last thing he expected when he looked up was Greg again, standing there in jeans and a shirt with a neck cut deep enough to reveal some chest tattoos that had been previously hidden.

Mycroft cast aside the excitement that built in his chest and remained as professional as he could manage as he put the orchids aside and straightened out. “Spill some more ink on your lilies?”

Greg grinned, shrugging. “Something like that,” he said, smiling mischievously. “I’m actually here looking for a nice bouquet of tulips this time around.” he said, leaning up against the counter.

Mycroft’s heart fell a bit because it now made sense why Greg would be coming into the shop so close to closing time. He was dressed casually, but in a nice shirt and a nice pair of jeans nonetheless, it was a perfect time to take someone out for an evening together, and he was buying a pretty bunch of flowers like tulips. More than likely, Greg was going off on some sort of date. Mycroft knew he hadn’t really stood a chance, but it hurt terribly to have his day dreams crushed like this. Still, he nodded, going over to his section of tulips. “Of course. What color?”

Greg hummed thoughtfully, looking at them from where he stood. “I don’t know. Surprise me. Pick your favorite color.”

Mycroft nodded, taking some orange ones and arranging them together. He handed it over to Greg and rung him up on the cash register. “Going out?” he asked as casually as he could manage. He passed Greg his receipt, keeping his gaze down at the cash register and not at the gorgeous - unfortunately taken -man in front of him.

“Well, I’m not quite sure yet.” Greg said, taking the flowers and checking his phone. He stared at the thing for a good minute before looking back up, holding up his mobile to show the time. Seven sharp. Closing time for the shop. “See, I’ve got these beautiful flowers here and I know a little coffee shop playing some jazz until nine and the bloke I want to take out has just closed up shop and should be free for the night, but I’m not quite sure if he’ll agree.” Greg gave him a shy grin and held the flowers out to him.

Mycroft Holmes did not blush. No, that wasn’t a thing he did. And he certainly didn’t blush as he walked to a little café, hand in hand with the most attractive hooligan Mycroft had ever had the luck to encounter.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: There is a sequel to this now! It can be found in my profile titled 'Love Story in Trash Polka'


End file.
